


A Blow on Queen Susan's Horn

by WinterSwallow



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen, The Implacable Wisdom of Virgil, The Use of Marshmallows as a form of curency, The Utility of Bath Tubs, The Weaponisation of Rogers and Hammerstein, Vs Their Fairy Tale AU selves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:30:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7058206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSwallow/pseuds/WinterSwallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>International Rescue will answer any call. Even this one. Cross over with the Fairytale AU. Not remotely serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Son by Any Other Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635141) by [carryonstarkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid). 



The Prince straightens the clasp of his royal blue cloak at the crook of his neck and breathes a heavy sigh, ready to face his betrothed, his brothers and his people. The impression in the glass looks fittingly grand. The crown pinches like anything.   


He turns away from the glass and as he does, there is a change in the air.   


It’s as if the rug beneath his feet was pulled sideways while the rest of the world was pulled in the other direction. It is very strange.  


He completes his turn and finds himself staring at another reflection.   


Or at least, it would be a reflection if his reflection was wearing an extraordinary uniform of blue and silver and the most bemused expression.  


Well, perhaps he is wearing a bemused expression, but he is most certainly not reaching up to scratch his head as this reflection is doing. “Huh. That was… weird.”

“More magic,” murmurs the prince.  


“But maybe not as weird as this,” His reflection is staring at him, has the temerity to look deeply puzzled, as if materialising in the prince’s chambers is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to _him_. Then suddenly he breaks off and crosses to the window, leans half way out. “Oh, boy. Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”  


At this point the reflection’s confusion seems to clear, replaced by a wave of activity. He checks the garderobe, under the bed, the door to the passage, seeming to be looking for something, all the while muttering to himself, “’I feel fine,’ you said. ‘Not tired at all,’ you said. ‘I’ll just do one more quick run,’ you said. Oh, man.”  


Well, a prince will not be ignored in his own chambers, certainly not this prince. Certainly not by some spectre with a stolen face who is treating his rooms like his own. He blocks his way. “Who are you?”   


The reflection just sidesteps him. “Scott Tracy. International Rescue. But I’m guessing you know that already.” He taps the gauntlet on his wrist as if expecting something to happen.   


“And you say you’re from somewhere called Kansas?”  


“Technically my last known position was 30,000 feet above Kansas. Or maybe Arkansas by now. I was going pretty fast. Which means it’s a real problem if I’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. You mind if I borrow this?”   


He grabs one of the prince’s daggers from where it lies on the bed and in the next second he has jabbed himself in the finger with it. “Ow. Damn,” He looks around. “Still here. Oh man, I’m going to crash, and I’m going to be a big fiery ball of death and Virgil’s never going to let me hear the end of it. I’m going to be _dead_ and Virgil’s still not going to let me hear the end of it.”   


_Virgil!_ Does Virgil know something of this? “And are you a prince too?”  


The other Scott blinks at him. “You know, Kayo is right. We have got to stop reading People Magazine.”

* * *

Oh man, whatever about the curse, his brothers are _never ever_ going to believe this one.   


“Could you stop doing that, please?”  


“Sorry, sorry.” The other him pushes his chin this way and that. “I just can’t believe that’s what my nose looks like. And the back of your head. How often do you get to see the back of your head? Last time I got Virgil to check he said it looked fine, but you never know. He could just be being nice. Hey, wanna look?”

“No, thank you.”  


“Okay, your loss. Where did you say this was again?”   


“The kingdom of Melchior.”  


“Melchior. Cool.”  


Alan stares at his double in disbelief. “You believe me?”  


“Sure, why not?”  


“But no one believes me. The curse says that no one will believe a thing I say.”  


His double shrugs. “But I’m not just anyone. I’m you.”

* * *

The two Johns sit across from each other, cross-legged. His counterpart – doppelganger – double – faces him. It is strange to look at, not like looking in a reflection because, of course, a reflection is the wrong way around. Yet there is something different about this version of him. He seems taller, broader, more sure in his own skin, as if he has a certain _Scottness_ that he himself does not possess. On arrival he had ascertained – nay demanded - the facts and once he had received them he had not stopped talking since.  


“So, alright, the library is a metaphor for my desire to obtain knowledge and by an extension a metaphor for Thunderbird 5. And the spell is symbolic of my self-imposed isolation. Therefore my self-conscious is trying to tell me that too much isolation can be detrimental to my personal state of wellbeing, as evidenced by your clearly sub-optimal state of vitality. So the solution is that I need to rotate back to Earth imminently and spend time with friends and family.” He adds to himself, “Grandma’s going to be _so_ smug.”  


He gazes around the room, as if expecting the walls to evaporate or to be whisked away back to where ever it was he came from.

“Hmm,” he says, when this doesn’t happen. “I suppose it’s possible I maybe have some unresolved issues with Scott to put to rest.”  


Sitting on his shoulder, EOS gives an unkind little chuckle.

* * *

“Bro, this is amazing! Are you like a pirate king?”  


“Mostly trade and exploration. Some small privateer work, but legal. I have a licence from the king.”  


“And you can go anywhere in the world as long as it’s on water? But you can’t go on land? Dude, whoever cursed you stole that from Octodude.”  


“Octodude?”  


“You know. Pirates Three. Or was it Seven? Whatever. So if you can’t go on land, what do you do if you want a pizza? Or tandoori chicken? Or ooh, those little won ton pork things I can never remember the name of. I mean, I – sorry – _we_ love sushi and all but I don’t think I’d want to eat it _all the time_.”  


“I don’t know what pizza is.”  


“Oh, right. Uh, mead? Grog? Neeps and tatties? What if you want one of those tiny chickenlike things, all bones, they’re always serving them at TI functions.”  


“Capons?”  


“Capons! Yeah. UH! What if you want to accidentally on purpose bump into Lady Penelope? Your world does have a Lady Penelope, right?”  


“Princess Penelope…”  


“Princess Penelope.” He smacks his forehead. “Of course she’d be a princess around here. What if you want to arrange an interlude?” He waggles his eyebrows.   


“If the Princess and I want to meet, she comes to my ship.”   


The other him looks around, at the cabin, at the chest, at the big canopied bed. Then he blushes bright red from his collar to the roots of his hair.  


“Here? _Here_ here? Here here _here_? So you and Lady… sorry Princess… Princess P, you know each other well? Like well _well_? Like well well _well_? _Dude_.” He puts his hands on his hips and sighs. “I don’t know if I should hug you or punch you.”

* * *

“So, werewolf curse, huh?”  


“Yeah, how did you know?”  


This other him shrugs. “Lucky shot.”

* * *

Two Scotts, the prince and his double, sit at the edge of his bed and try to get things straightened out.   


“So,” asks this other Scott. “Anything you say? Anything? So if you said ‘Let there be cake’?”  


“Then there would be cake.”  


“And if you were to say, for instance, call someone a rat-faced weasel.”  


“I try not to do things like that anymore.”  


“But what if there’s someone who has… despoiled your kingdom and hurt your people and you’re powerless to stop it and you’re boiling over and…”  


“I do a lot of sword drills. That helps.”  


“I’ll bet.” The other him stretches. “Look, Your Highness, I wish we could talk about this longer but I really need to be getting back to _my_ world. It’s kind of life or death. There isn’t any chance that your world has a Brains, is there?”  


“What’s a Brains?”  


“Damn. How about a John?”

* * *

Prince John flinches as he hears those rapid ratatat of footsteps charging up the stairs. Of all people he does not want Scott to see him while he’s experiencing this episode. He rises to hide himself, but it’s too late because the door is flung open.   


But Scott stops at the doorway, looks him up and down and says, “Oh, there are two of you too.”  


His counterpart, doppelganger, whatever rises now too. “ _Scott_ , don’t just go barging in here!”  


“Sorry,” says Scott, not sounding sorry at all. “I heard you were hiding out in the library and I thought I’d come up and see if I could find out what was going on. I mean, _I’m_ not going to be the one with answers, am I?” He jabs his thumb behind his shoulder as another Scott, his brother, _his true brother_ , comes bounding up the stairs.   


“Are you okay, John?” asks his Scott. “He didn’t try to hurt you, did he?”  


“I’m fine. They’ve just talked to me. At me. Did you do this?”   


“How could I? I didn’t say ‘We will all be visited by loud, strangely dressed versions of ourselves’, did I? I said I _didn’t_ say that,” he adds off John’s cross look. “Why would I?”  


Meanwhile, the other John has sidled up to the other Scott. “It’s come to my attention that I may be suppressing some feelings of resentment for you and I think my sub-conscious is giving me the opportunity to vent them in a safe and – OW!”   


Scott has pinched him on the arm. _“I am not your subconscious_.”  


“You see, _that’s_ what I’m talking about!”  


Scott ignores him and crosses the room to where the real John stands. He can’t help but take a step back. It’s been years since his brother, double or not, was this close to him, months since anyone was.   


“John, right? I mean, you are John? His John.” He indicates the real Scott.  


“Uh, yes.”  


This strange Scott seems to notice his reticence because he peers at him with a deepening frown and pinches the bridge of his nose. Then before John can dart backward out of reach he braces his hands on both shoulders.   


“You’re looking kind of peaky, bro. You need to get out more. I’m worried about you.”  


“Scott,” the other him scoffs. “Don’t talk to him like that.”   


“Why not? He’s my brother, isn’t he? And this stuffed shirt seems to have forgotten how to do it.”   


John has the pleasure of seeing his brother speechless before this other, _odd_ Scott turns back to him. “Are you eating? Are you sleeping? And don’t try to feed me that ‘meditation as a substitute for sleep’ baloney. He tries that on me all the time. He still needs seven hours of rack time like the rest of us. Well?”

He’s saved from the humiliation of answering by someone calling his name.

* * *

Virgil is hiding behind a tree, in case the sight of two of him frightens the servants. The other him is standing beneath the window of John’s tower, bellowing his name. “John, hey, John!”  


The next moment, John leans out his window and his double puts his hands on his hips. “Are you my John or his John?”  


“Go away, Virgil.”  


The next moment Scott, or at least a version of Scott, leans out too. “His John. Hi.”  


“Oh, hey. So we’re all here then? Where are Gordon and Alan?”  


“Don’t know yet. My comms are down. Hang on, I’ll come down to you.”  


“No, wait, we’ll come up.” He turns back to Virgil. “You know how to get up there, right?”  


“Yes. I just don’t particularly want to –”  


“Great! You can show me then.”   


He shoves him towards the door in front of him. He makes for the castle door and Virgil is forced to trail after him. “You don’t understand. My brother, he’s not someone you trifle with. If he doesn’t get his own way…”  


The other him gives a dark chuckle. “Looks like I got here just in time.”  


They clamber up the winding staircase of the tower, and have just reached the junction where the library stairs peels off from the one that would take them to the turret when two small balls of blonde lightning catapult down the stairs, trip and come careening towards him. He snatches one ball out of the air, as his double grabs hold of another.  


“Hi, Virg.”   


“Alan, you need to be more careful.”  


“Alan, are you trying to get yourself killed?”  


There’s a brief, embarrassing moment as they realise that they’ve each got hold of the wrong Alan.   


Alan – the wrong Alan – wriggles out of his grip. It’s strange. He hasn’t seen Alan – the real Alan – In what feels like months. And when he does the boy is strange and truculent and making up all sorts of lies. This Alan beams, as if seeing him is the best thing that’s happened all day. “Cool outfit, Virgil. Very LOTR. Are you some sort of ranger or something? Hey, are you an elf?”   


He reaches up and squeezes the tips of Virgil’s ears. “No, I guess that wouldn’t make sense seeing as you’re still my brother. I missed you.”   


He turns to his Virgil with a semi-grin. “Not you. You’ve only been gone seventy-four minutes and you totally left me with the dishes to do, even though it clearly says on the fridge that it’s your day, but he’s feeling it, so you know.”  


It takes a moment for Virgil to pull the wheat from the chaff on this one, when he does he turns to the real Alan, he says, “Is that true?”  


“Yeah,” says Alan, but it seems like there’s no sincerity there at are all.  


Fake Alan, other Alan, rolls his eyes dramatically. “Du-ude. I told you.” He jabs Virgil in the ribs. “Ask him again.”  


“Uh, Alan did you really miss me?”  


Alan looks at his feet. “No,” he says. But suddenly Virgil can see it for what it really is, a lie. He can see the loneliness and the fear and the frustration printed all over Alan’s features. “Oh, Alan. I’m sorry… I…”  


That’s when Scott – though which Scott he’s not sure – appears at the top of the stairs. “Oh good, you found him… uh, them. Come on up, we’re waiting.”  


With a glance at his brother…at his brothers… boy, this is confusing. He hurries up the stairs.  


There are eight of them in the library now, squeezed into chairs and leaning on bookshelves. One of the Alan’s – the wrong Alan again – strides over to the foreign Scott and the two bump fists, before he goes to stand next to one of the John’s, rest’s his hand on his shoulder. They are both such easy, casual gestures that it’s a little hard to watch. He puts his hand on his own little brother’s shoulder.   


“Well,” says his brother Scott, clearly uncomfortable. “Now all we’re missing is–”  


“Row, row, row your boat!” Hollers a voice from the window.    


* * *

If any of the other sea captains see him, rowing upstream in a puny lifeboat while a doppelganger in yellow and blue lurches about at the rudder, singing “Row, Row your boat” he is never going to be able to sit at the Captain’s table again.   


“Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” At least his voice has a decent timbre. Maybe he should sing more often. Maybe it would impress Pen.  


“Oi, jackass!” There comes a shout from the window of the castle. John’s window, he realises, but it’s not John who’s doing the shouting.  


 _Virgil._ It’s been so long since they saw each other, separated by their respective tangles of the curse, that he almost doesn’t recognise his voice.   


How long has it been?  


This Virgil is cheery and relaxed. He’s got both elbows on the window sill and, he realises, heart sinking, is not paying attention to him at all. “What are you doing?”

His doppelganger rises, wobbles to the prow of the boat, waving madly. “Hey, Virg. You’ll never guess what. I’m a pirate king.”  


“You’re _what!_?” He knows without checking that this has got to be his Scott. A second later the crown prince sticks his head out the window. “You’re a what now?”  


“Relax, he’s kidding.”   


“Only kinda kidding.” The boat nearly capsizes as the other Gordon leaps ashore with a casual indifference that sends a spike of jealousy through his gut. “Hey there, other Scott. You and I should have some words. Be right up.”  


“I can’t go any further,” he reminds him. “The curse.”  


The other Gordon waves his hand as if this is a little detail, scratches his head, then he turns on him. His eyes, which until now have betrayed nothing but cheerful enthusiasm are suddenly full of pathos. “If you can’t go on land and John can’t leave his tower, you can’t have seen each other in years, right?”  


He nods. _Years._ He tries not to think about it.   


“How much of your dignity would you sacrifice to talk to him again?”  


It’s a question Gordon doesn’t even need to think about. “You’re me, right? So you know the answer to that question.”  


The other him grins. “All of it, it is then. Virg! Hey, Virg. We’re going to need a bathtub.”

* * *

The eight of him carry him up in a tub filled to the brim with seawater. Two maids trail behind, topping the tub up as they slosh water onto the stairs. Eventually they manhandle the tub into the library.   


A fiery bulb of pixie light buzzes furiously about his head as they splash water onto the flagstones. “Sorry,” he tells it.   


John is sitting on a settee in the back of the room. He stands. And Gordon realises that the room is much less crowded than he thought it would be, that his brothers – and his other brothers – have excused themselves.   


“Hey Johnny.”  


“Hi, Gordon.”   


And look, Gordon’s not crying, he’s not. He’s a sea captain dammit and seadogs don’t cry and it’s just the salt water in his eyes and that’s John’s fault anyway, splashing it around when he just climbs into the tub too and throws his arm around him.  


“Your pixie’s mad.”   


“She’ll cope.”  


“I’m getting you all wet.”   


“I’ll cope too, Gordy.”

* * *

Scott now has nine brothers to deal with, seven of whom are crammed in the little patch of passageway outside the library door, pretending like they’re not eavesdropping on what’s going on inside.   


The remaining Gordon tries to throw an arm around the remaining John. “It must be rough when you don’t see your brother for months’ on end.”  


“Don’t start.”  John shakes him off.   


Scott’s about to knock on the door to see if it is safe to come in when footsteps come pounding up the stairs. Virgil’s squire is hurrying towards them. His hands are flailing above his head as he tries to get their attention.   


“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”   


“Hey, it’s Brains,” says the other Alan.  


“What’s a Brains?” asks Virgil.  


“A catastrophe has occurred,” says the man. “If we don’t do something about it at once the world as we know it may be doomed.”  


“Yup, that’s a Brains, alright.” says the other Gordon.

* * *

It takes five minutes for Squire Hiram to explain that a portal has ripped itself open in the castle courtyard, that somehow pieces from the foreign world beyond have snuck through and if they don’t get those pieces back where they belong the portal will tear the kingdom apart.  


It takes six minutes for him to realise that there are rather more princes in the library than he is used to dealing with. “Oh.”  


The others help carry Gordon back downstairs. It is terrible how afraid John feels when the door closes behind the last of them, leaving him again to his own company.  


Of course this time that doesn’t mean he is entirely alone.  


His other self is flicking through one of his favourite texts with casual interest that is entirely feigned. “Are you going to be alright up here by yourself?”  


“Of course I am. I always am.”  


“Hate to say it, but Scott’s right, you know. Being here is not good for you.”   


“You think I don’t know that?”  


“Then get out.”  


 _“I’ve tried._ ”  


“Try again.”   


“It’s impossible. The things I would need to escape the library, I just can’t get because _I can’t leave the library._ ”  


And his other self looks at him as if he’s simple, as if he’s a small child who needs things explained to him very slowly. “That’s why you go to Alan for help.”

* * *

Hiram is setting up the artefacts needed to stabilise the portal and Gordon is hoping to grab another moment with his other self before they have to leave, but has somehow been cornered by the last person he wanted to talk to.   


“So you’re in love with Penny,” says the other Virgil, arms folded.  


“Wha’? No. Uh-uh.”  


“Uh-huh. Yeah you are.”  


“How can you know that? _He_ doesn’t know that.” He glances over his shoulder to where his Virgil is talking softly to his counterpart.”  


“ _Pfft!_ Yeah he does. Gordon?”  


“Yeah.”  


“Talk to Scott. He’s not anything like as bad as you think.”

* * *

“So, werewolf curse, eh? That sucks.”  


Virgil groans. “How do you people keep doing that?”  


The other Gordon grins. “I had the inside track. But man, if only there were some people you could go to for help with this. You know, a wise, well-read older brother type. Maybe a bright, unbelievably handsome younger fellow. That sure would come in handy.”  


“Yeah, yeah. Okay. You made your point.”  


“I know you want to carry it all on your shoulders, Virg. But the point is you don’t have to.”

* * *

The other Alan has handed him over a piece of paper with dense writing scribbled on it.   


“What’s this?”  


“The rules.”  


“Of what?”  


“Poker. Texas Hold ‘Em. We play it sometimes at home for peanut butter cups. It’s fun and you can have more players than with chess. I thought you could play it with your brothers. Plus, I figure, you won’t be cursed forever, but while you are you’re going to be _really good_ at it.”  


“Thanks Alan.”  


The other Alan leans in. “If you do play, watch Virgil. You think it’s Gordon who’s going to be the threat, but it isn’t. _Watch Virgil_.”

* * *

The portal is almost ready to go when Scott the pilot grabs Scott the prince and leads him aside. “One more thing before I go.”  


“But the portal…”  


“I’ll be quick. I’m good at quick. Your Highness… Scott. I’m not going to try to give you advice on magic or curses or how to run a kingdom. And honestly if everyone did what I told them to all of the time, I think I’d be dead about fifty times over.” He drops his voice. “Tell John that though and you’re dead.”  


“Which John?”  


“ _Any_ John. What I wanted to tell you was this. When you’re trying to salvage a tanker in the Arctic Ocean, and the sea is churning like a washing machine and the wind is a buzzsaw and you’d be freezing if the whole tanker wasn’t on fire. And then tank two goes up like a Roman candle and you hear the tanker groaning and you know, you just know, that any moment it’s going to flip and take you, and the crew to your boiling watery graves, that’s when you know that there are four people at your back whom you can always, always count on. Do you know what I mean?”  


“Honestly, I understood about one word in four of that.”  


The other Scott grins. “But you got the sentiment. You’re a smart guy.”  


“I um… maybe.” He squirms. “But affairs of state are very difficult at the moment. And I’m so busy, with the coronation and everything…”  


His double is giving him that look. He sees it in the mirror every once in a while. “Your Majesty, don’t try your bullshit on me. I invented that bullshit. Your curse may be the baddest, scariest thing in the entire kingdom but it should be running scared if it has to deal with your four brothers.”  


“Scott, Thunderbirds need to go. Now. Right now.” Virgil is hollering and suddenly the other Scott is backing away.   


“Wait…” There’s a crack in the world now, like a splinter of ice pushing apart the folds of the universe. It swallows John first, then Gordon. Virgil is being sucked into it next.   


“Talk to your brothers, Scott.” He winks. “That’s what I would do. And try to live.” He seems very far away all of a sudden.  


“Happily ever after you mean?”  


“That’s not what I said, is it?” He shouts back.   


He turns to his brothers, only shadows now themselves. “Okay, Interdimensional Rescue, move out. Oh, whoa, nope. Still weird.”  


And he’s gone.   


* * *

The prince wakes. It’s the day of the coronation. So much to do. So much to go wrong.   


But for a moment he remembers his dream and smiles.

* * *

“ARRGH!”  


Scott, Virgil, Alan and a digital rendering of John are playing cards at the kitchen table. Alan has just cleared Virgil out of all but one of him M&Ms so it’s worrying him that Virgil _keeps smiling_.  


The crash makes his others all turn towards the stairs, they had left Gordon asleep in the den.   


Alan takes this opportunity to peak at Scott’s cards.  


A moment later Gordon rolls down the stairs. “I had such a strange dream. And you were there and you, and you.” He shakes his head. “You know, never mind. I’ve got to stop snacking post mission.”   


He fills a tumbler of water, then goes to the fridge and deals himself two dozen mini-marshmallows. Virgil and Scott make room for him and he pulls up a chair, humming as he does so, “And it is, it is a glorious thing to be a pirate king.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s quiet in the castle. Penelope resists the urge to say, too quiet, because she knows that really there is no such thing. But it is a suspicious sort of quiet, the sort of quiet that makes you think that there are interesting things going on elsewhere of which you are unaware. 

She was supposed to meet Scott in the garden, but though she had waited for almost an hour he had never shown up.  When she had asked the servants they told conflicting stories. He was in the tower, no he was in the courtyard. No he had just been seen hurrying up the stairs to his chambers.

Eventually she gathers her book and decides to go visit John in the library, ostentatiously to spend a pleasant morning reading with her friend, actually to find out what the hell is going on. 

She is halfway up the tower when someone tall, dark haired, and above all, very, very blue comes rushing down the stairs against her and crashes into her.

“Oh, whoa. Sorry.” Strong arms reach out and catch her, and for a single, heart stopping moment she thinks, _it’s you. You’re here. You came. You’re free._

But, no. A heartbeat later she realises that it’s Scott who has caught her and steadied her in his arms. 

His eyes light up in surprise and pleasure when he sees who it is, and there is none of his usual rehearsed warmth or careful chivalry as he says, “Lady P. Hey. I guess I should have expected you’d be around somewhere. Someone’s got to keep the clowns from overrunning the circus, right? Oh, ‘scuse me.”  
He tries to step back, but he’s got tangled in the hoop of her skirts and is having some trouble unhooking himself. “Sorry, sorry. That’s…” He looks her up and down, “Well, that’s a lot of dress, even for you.” 

Coming from him, dressed as he is in the most extraordinary costume of royal blue, she finds this pretty rich. 

She smooths out the wrinkles in her carmine gown. “What is going on, Scott? I was expecting to meet you in the garden, and now I find you gallivanting around the place like a wild animal. What’s happening?”

“Uh, well, that’s pretty tricky to explain.” His eyes slide sideways and he taps his foot. It’s a familiar gesture and it makes her heart ache. It’s exactly the same sort of tell that afflicts Gordon when he’s about to tell his biggest, fattest lies. 

She wonders if it would be easier if she were marrying a stranger, some foreign prince from a distant land. Most of the time Scott seems as different from Gordon as the moon from the sun, but then something Scott says or does, some shrug of his shoulders or choice of phrasing will mimic Gordon and her loss will hit her again like a fresh wave breaking on the shore.  

But a princess battles through. She puts her hands on her hips. “Scott, if we are to be husband and wife these secrets have to end. Now.”

This does not elicit the response she expected. In fact Scott looks for a moment like he’s been slapped in the face with a wet herring. He gurgles. “Husband and wife? You wife? Me husband?”

“That is the generally accepted format, yes.”

“Oh. Oh boy. Well, he sure left that bit out.” He scratches his head. “We’re getting married?”

“Scott!”

“To each other?!”

“Scott this isn’t funny.”

“But what about…?”  
“What about what?”

“About. You know? You do know! Yay high,” his hand slides to a position at about the level of his navel, “Mouthy. Bad puns. Terrible chess player. Likes yellow…”

“Scott, this is in very poor taste.” To her surprise and disgust she finds herself blinking back tears. To her abject horror Scott seems to notice.

“Oh, whoa, no.” He takes her elbow. “I forgot everythings’s a little more brittle round here. I’m sorry. I should try and explain. Huh, wow, this is hard. Basics first, I guess. I’m Scott Tracy, but I’m not your Scott Tracy.”

“Pardon?” She wonders what this is, some joke, or some new twist of the curse.

He folds his arms. “It’s hard to explain, but due to a strange set of circumstances, which may or may not be related to the very bad idea of eating a re-heated portion of Grandma’s chicken Jalfreezi at 3AM, I’m another Scott Tracy. A different Scott Tracy. Scott Trucy. No, that’s stupid. I’m Scott from another world.”

Ladies do not gape and say, “What?” Still, that’s exactly what Penelope does now. 

“What?” 

Gentle but insistent, he takes her elbow and leads her to the tower window. 

“Look.”  

She follows his pointing finger down to the courtyard. Standing in its centre, his attention fixed on something just out of sight, is another young man. Scott’s double. 

But it’s not that which convinces her. It’s the two young men standing on either side of him. The sun lights up a shock of gold and a flash of red.

“Impossible,” she says, as Gordon does the unthinkable, grabs the other Scott – her Scott she realises – and puts him in a headlock. “Magic.”

She turns to the man at her side. “Who are you? What are you?”

“I’m Scott. Another Scott. From another time. Or place. John thinks it’s the multiple worlds theory. That, or someone’s put a hallucinogen in our water supply, he’s not sure. Either way, here I am. Your fiancé. Apparently.”

Something about this, about the way he’s fixated on it, rubs her the wrong way. “And what’s so wrong with being my fiancé?” she says, hands on hips.

“Wha’? Nothing. Nothing.” He raises his hand. 

“We will be married on the next full moon,” she says. “We will be two souls as one and we will have a happy and prosperous marriage.”

“I’m sure we will… you will. Oh, man this is confusing. I just mean. All I was saying was…” 

“Happy and prosperous and fertile. Do you understand?” She pokes him in the chest. 

“Sure. Sure. I mean any guy would be lucky to have you.”

“Damn straight,” she snarls. “And no one, least of all you, is going to get in our way.”

“Okay, okay, Penny, relax.” He catches her hand and pulls it into his, doesn’t let go. Those blue eyes are suddenly intense. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. 

“Scott…” She tries to pull away. 

“I’m just trying to say…. I’m just trying to explain…”

He sighs. “Oh, to hell with it,” he says, pulls her to him and kisses her.

It’s a good kiss, confident and practiced, tender and demanding all at once. It’s not the sort of kiss she ever imagined him – the other him – the him that looks at her like she’s a saint, like she’s a piece of precious porcelain that he might break if he touches her – ever giving her, and she finds herself wondering about the change in him, the difference between her chivalrous, anxious, well-meaning prince, and this brash, confident boy who thinks it’s okay to go kissing princesses in stairwells. She wonders if this is who he would have been if the curse hadn’t laid its fingers across his heart.

And as she’s thinking all this, the kiss ends.

He’s looking at her now, waiting for her to speak. His expression is as solemn as a priest’s. He’s still got hold of her left shoulder, her right elbow and she can feel the warmth from his fingers radiating through the silken fabric of her dress.

Her lips move as she tries to think of something, anything, to say.   
He cocks his head to the side and sighs again. “Nothing, huh?” 

Then suddenly he breaks into a grin. “Me neither. It’s the darnedest thing.” 

He laughs and releases his hold on her. “I mean we go so well together on paper. We’re both bright, funny, attractive children of difficult parents. We both know the pressures of leading. And I mean you’re gorgeous and brilliant and badass and, don’t get me wrong you really fill out a foofy pink meringue thing… I don’t know what it is. Just a lack of…”

“Alchemy,” she says.

“Chemistry,” he says simultaneously and his grin widens. “Yeah. You read my mind.”

*

They sit together on the stairs. The stone of the castle breathes cold and he has no jacket to put around her, but he removes a small cube from his belt and when he twists it, it emits light and warmth like the embers of a fire. He places it into her palms.

“Magic,” she says.

“Well, sort of.” 

As they sit there he tells her a story, about five brothers and their foster sister living on an island, flying out on great mechanical birds made of silver and thunder to help the helpless. Of the intelligent, resourceful young woman who has dedicated herself to helping them.

She pushes a strand of hair back from her face. “It sounds like a fairy story.” 

He chuckles. “Yeah, I can see why you might say that.”

She turns the cube over in her hand and then glances up at him. He’s watching her closely.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you have to go?”

“Nah, Brains says that we absolutely, unequivocally have to be inside the portal within the next three minutes or something catastrophic will happen.”  
She starts but he only shrugs. “That means we’ve got at least another forty minutes. Brains likes wide safety margins.”

“Who is Brains? Oh, you mean Virgil’s funny little squire, the one with the speech impediment?”

“Ye-ah. That’s a resource you guys are seriously underutilising.” He grows suddenly serious. “But there’s something that I wanted to tell you before I go.”

“What is it?” 

“Thank you.” His hand squeezes hers. 

This surprises her. “For what?” 

“For John. You’re the one who’s been looking out for him, aren’t you? Gordon too, I bet. And… and the other guy.”

“The other guy?”

He sighs. “You know when they say, ‘what would you tell your younger self?’ I always thought if I would it would be stuff like, “Don’t just talk shop with Dad. Stop underestimating Virgil. Tequila and tattoo parlours don’t mix.” I never thought…”

“Never thought…?”

He seems suddenly reticent. “I’ve got my faults, you know. Ask John some time, he’ll catalogue them for you, but when you get right down to it, I’m a good guy. I’m pretty sure of that much at least. But he’s so sure he’s a bad guy. And the other four are such a mess, and, I’m what, supposed to leave them? Leave them to him? When he can’t see in front of his own face?” 

“You really are him, aren’t you?” The thought of it, that he’s not just some stranger with a familiar face, that he really is her betrothed or at least some version of him, is at once fascinating and frightening. 

“Well, yeah. I’m him. Just older, luckier and less lonely.”

She pushes a strand of hair out of her face. “How’s this going to end, Scott?”   
He tries that dimply smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Happily ever after?” 

Her cold look only makes him grin some more. “Sorry. Bad taste.” His shoulder bumps against hers and she’s struck by the strangeness of him comforting her. 

She feels a swell of sudden emotion, regret for what could have been, for all those years growing up when they had been polite and courtly and wary of each other, when what they should have been was great friends, a friendship different from what she has with John, but no lesser.  

“I’m sorry,” she says, and isn’t sure what she’s apologising for 

This time he’s the one who brushes the hair back from her face, and she wonders for a moment if his hand lingers just a little too long. “You know what I do when it all seems tangled and terrible and hopeless?”

“What do you do?”

He tucks the hair behind her ear. “I call you.”

“SCOTT!” They both jump. Alan is standing not ten feet away, looking unimpressed.

“I’m right here, Alan.” Scott turns away from her.  “And I’m busy.”

“Virgil said you’d say that. He also told you to say that Brains says that the cosmos are going to implode. For really real this time. And to get off your lazy butt. Hey, Lady P. Nice dress.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “That’s my cue I guess. Sorry. Fate of the universe and all.”

“Come on. Come on.” Alan is bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Will you come down?”  Scott turns to her. “You could.”

But the thought of John in sunlight, of Gordon grinning and puzzled as Scott had been, is too much for her. “No, thank you.” 

He doesn’t press the subject. “Okay. Be well, Princess.”

On impulse she stands on her own tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Scott.”

Those dimples are back again. “My pleasure. Okay. Okay. I’m coming. I’m coming.” Alan is dragging on his arm. “Goodbye.”

From the stairs she watches them go, Alan yattering on the whole way down the stairs. Then she turns and runs the rest of the way up the steps to the library.

She has much to discuss with John, and a letter to write.


End file.
